I nod. “Perhaps.”
Lighter on my feet, I turn back for the doors. I’ve nearly reached them when Perg calls, “Lark.”
I hesitate.
Letting the axe handle fall to the floor, he crosses over to me. He is immensely wide and tall, and yet his size fails in comparison to a full-blooded trollis. He reaches to his belt and pulls a sheathed dagger from it. It’s a reasonable size for human hands.
“Here.” He hands it to me. “I don’t want to worry about you, either.”
Stunned, I take the gift. The craftmanship is unelaborate but solid. I owned a small knife before coming to Cagmar, but the guards who captured me on the bridge must have taken it, for I haven’t seen it since then.
“Humans aren’t allowed to carry these,” I whisper.
“Then don’t let anyone see you with it.”
I clutch the dagger to my chest. I wonder, if Perg knew what I really was, whether he’d be so ready to befriend me. Or arm me. “Thank you.” I pause. “Perg, what’s your birth year?”
He tilts his head. “941, why?”
“Merces, the wren. Adaptable, quick, persistent. It suits you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What are you jabbering about?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Good luck.”
He returns to his axe.
I hurry back to my small room, making sure to hide the dagger beneath my skirt before I reach the marketplace.
Chapter 9
Over the next two weeks, I heal and find a comfortable groove among the city. I adjust to an official work schedule and time my errands in the marketplace so I’ll be as out of the way as possible for Unach and Azmar, though I enjoy their company. I run Unach’s errands between shifts and learn several trollis dishes, which I cook to her satisfaction. I watch how Unach sharpens and polishes her weapons, which in turn teaches me to care both for the south-dock weaponry and for the dagger Perg gave me.
I see Perg often, sometimes late at night when he’s training, sometimes when our paths cross in town, though I spend most of my daylight hours at the south dock or crawling the outside of the city. I learn the plumbing and even fix a leak in Unach’s apartment on my own. I’d love to visit one of the waterworks to see how it all functions. There are two of them: the smaller lies near the top of the city and distributes water via gravity through pipes. The larger caps the very base of Cagmar, where water is collected, stored, and purified. According to Azmar, the water fetchers have the most dangerous job in the entire city, for while Unach battles monsters irregularly, they work in fear of them every day. Cagmar is massive, but it comes nowhere close to reaching the river at the bottom of the canyon, so the water fetchers must leave the safety of the city to ensure its survival.
All of them are Plebs.
I’ve dropped off a leather girdle of Unach’s for repair in the marketplace when I see Ritha’s familiar face pulling a heavy wagon of foodstuff. For a fleeting moment, I imagine myself walking behind her, pushing the cart as she pulls, going about our daily chores together. What would my life have been like if she had raised me?
I hurry across the street and approach her carefully, earning her attention with a light tug on her sleeve.
Ritha turns, her expression immediately softening. “Lark. You’re looking well.”
“Much thanks to you. How are you?”
She tucks auburn hair behind her ear. “I do not have a lot of time to dally, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’ll walk with you,” I offer. “Is Colson doing well? He was hurt, last I saw him.”
She blinks surprise at me. “Yes, he’s just fine. He got a good beating for what he did.”
I hunch, suddenly feeling too overbearing in my height, for I’m a good half a foot taller than Ritha. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “He deserved much more! I heard what happened. You saved his life.”
“Azmar did.”
She shakes her head in silent disagreement.
“And Etewen?”
“Fine as can be.”
We walk in silence for several paces. “Ritha, can humans compete to rise in the caste system?”
She chuckles. “Oh, Lark, your head is full of stars. No, we can’t. Even if we could, how would we best a troll? Even the half human would crush the strongest of us.”
“Perg wouldn’t do that.”
“He would in the caste tournament.”
We halt as a group of high-ranking trollis pass by. I search for Unach and Azmar among them, but they’re not there. We cross once the way is clear again.
“I suppose you’re right.” I pause. “You know . . . they’re called trollis, not trolls.”
She glances at me. “I’m aware.”
“Troll is a disparaging term . . .”
Ritha slows and studies me. “You’re quite attached to them, aren’t you?”
My face warms. “I only mean to be fair. Perg, Azmar, Unach . . . they’re kind to me.”
She watches me a little longer, her eyes discerning in a way that makes me feel vulnerable. “Where are you from, Lark? Which township?”
The question catches me off guard. I had been asked my name and spoken a new one, but no one cared where I hailed from. I’m not sure how familiar the trollis are with human townships. I cannot imagine any harm in being honest, so I answer truthfully. “Lucarpo, originally. But I traveled a lot before coming here.”
Ritha’s expression grows distant and thoughtful. We reach the lift.
“Thank you, Lark.” She pulls the wagon onto the lift quickly, while it’s available. “Stay safe.”
“I will.” If I can befriend Perg, Azmar, and Unach, then I can befriend others. Show them the goodness of humans. Even persuade them to treat my people more fairly.
I turn from the lift and almost immediately meet the eyes of a trollis across the way. He is large, gray, and incredibly broad—enough to make someone like Perg look malnourished. He blends in with the stone behind him, so it takes me a beat to recognize him.
Grodd. Leader of the human task force. The one who dealt out Colson’s beating.
I wonder, had he been at the school that night, whether he’d have bothered to stop mine.
He folds his meaty arms and stares at me, and though at least twenty yards separate us, I feel as though I stand beside him. I consider lowering my gaze and moving away, showing deference even from this distance, and yet I find I cannot. Not because Grodd’s glare fascinates me, but because it disgusts me. I see pride in every inch of his stance and hate coloring every inch of his skin.
And so I stare back, lifting my chin, my heart pounding in my chest. Only when a group of trollis walking up from one of the tunnels comes between us do I retreat where he can’t see. In part so that he doesn’t know where I’m going. In part because I don’t want him to know I looked away first.